Having many years of experience as a writer, I am perhaps more observant than most people; so, when I opened the door, I noticed almost immediately that the person on the stoop had no face. Where the person’s face should have been was a solid wall of flesh without break or protrusion. The person’s hair was perfect, though.
“May I…use your telephone?” he asked, although I’m still not quite sure how he was able to speak – some mutant ventriloquism, I suspect. The person was strangely sexless, and if I refer to it as masculine, it is because of an inadequacy in the language and not an assumption on my part of the person’s gender. I couldn’t even be sure the person had a gender.
“Well..umm..” I nervously hesitated.
“Okay, look,” the man said, rapidly, in a low voice. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’ve been hounded by people, especially journalists, for so long I can’t remember. All I want is a few minutes of peace…”
“Who are you?” I asked, interest piqued.
“Jones?” he suggested. I let him in at once and offered him such hospitality and sympathy as was at my disposal. “Do you know anything about sociology?” he asked when we were comfortably settled on the couch in my livingroom.
“Very little,” I admitted. “Sociology was one of those subjects I pretended to study when I was pretending to be a university student…”
“It has to do with group dynamics,” Jones explained. “The way people interact. Most people are afraid to commit themselves to anything new, anything previously unproven, for fear of the disapproval of others. But, a small number – a very small number, owing to some quality of personality that is difficult to pinpoint definitely, experiment with…oh, art, fashion…ideas. These people are called opinion leaders; they’re the ones that everybody else seems to eventually follow.”
“You are!” I exclaimed. “You’re the Jones we’re all supposed to keep up with!”
“That’s me,” Jones glumly admitted. “I never wanted to be! I mean, I’m just trying to live my life the best I know how, just trying to keep it interesting for myself. I don’t want responsibility for the way other people live their lives!”
“Is it really so bad being an opinion leader?” I asked.
Jones lowered his head. “Every aspect of my life is scrutinized. Everything! Where do I eat? What kind of underwear do I wear? What is my first choice of employment? How many newspapers do I read a month? What kind of car do I drive? What is my favourite television programme? How thick are my lapels or high is my hem. How will I be voting in the next election? Where do I shop for groceries? How expensive is my home, and how am I going to pay for it? What is my favourite sex position? My life has been so widely imitated by those who lacked either the courage or imagination to live their own lives that I can no longer enjoy it!”
“Why didn’t you just change?” I asked further.
“I did,” Jones bitterly replied. “I always change. It’s my way. But, not only did everybody try to keep up with me, but then the reporters got into it. All of a sudden, every journalist who was stuck to fill a few column inches wanted to write about the latest fashions, styles, ideas. My phone’s been ringing off the hook since trend reporting became so popular.”
Jones was obviously unaware of who I was, which, considering what he represented, stung. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating how badly journalists have treated you,” I lamely protested.
“You’re probably right,” Jones replied, to my surprise. “Most of them will settle for a trend that’s several years old. Still, I’m getting tired of the whole thing. I just want to be left a -” Jones jumped as somebody knocked on the front door. “Who is that?”
“Probably just somebody who forgot their keys,” I assured him.
Jones sadly shook his head. “Do you have a back door?” He insisted I show him out the back as the knocking got louder. “A moment’s peace is all I’m allowed,” he told me, “but I appreciate it.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Before I leave, let me give you a tip…”
“Oh, that won’t be nec -“
“Don’t vote Conservative in the next election. I’m not.”
Oh. There was a large mob outside the front door, with a few reporters hanging around the fringes, bored but prepared. “What do you want?” I shouted above the roar of the helicopters hovering overhead.
“Where is Jones?” several people shouted back.
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” I yelled, angry. “Haven’t you tormented him enough?”
One woman, on, the verge of tears, replied, “We need him! How am I going to know what movies I like without him?”
“Can’t you decide for yourselves?”
“They’re out of practice,” one of the journalists cynically observed. “You’re wasting your breath.”
Just then, a shadowy figure with perfect hair rushed across the street. “It’s him!” somebody at the back of the crowd screamed, pointing at the figure.
In a moment, the crowd was gone.